


Eat It

by lollki



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Eat Pray Love but with sledgefu, Gene has anxiety, Gene: the burn-out case study, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sledgefu Week 2020, Snafu is nice for no reason, but it's in Amsterdam, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25630492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lollki/pseuds/lollki
Summary: Eugene's been through a full year of upper-middle class adventure, of going off the beaten track - Harvard Med, nervous breakdown, the glossy-pamphlet style recovery, the kind that’s for rich kids with their horseback riding and mountaintop yoga - then emptying his trust fund to do something reckless like travel Europe for a few months. For all of that to lead up to him standing outside a goddamn Amsterdam coffee shop, plagued by irrelevant, silly ruminations, it must really tell a story about him.
Relationships: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16
Collections: Sledgefu Week 2020





	1. to see

**Author's Note:**

> Very very self-indulgent. I lived the stoner lifestyle in 2014 so I cringe at every second of this fic because I wholeheartedly reject who I was as a person!  
> (it's still fun though.)

There’s that noise behind his eyes again, the fog, the vertigo that wells up whenever Eugene is feeling anxious. He grits his teeth, balls his fists so that the stubble of his trimmed nails leaves white, crescent-moon shapes in the palms of his hands as a crowd exits the coffee shop he’s bundled up against, two smokes in, watching the bright, lively street and pretending he’s waiting for someone. While they usher past, one of the girls eyes him curiously and it serves to drive the point home that he must be looking awkward. No ill-intent, just wonder. Eugene thinks it’s quite fitting that even in a place like Amsterdam, practically the capital of liberation, he’s still up in his head about the little movements he makes when he’s not sure if he’s being watched or not.  
  
The anxiety, it’s not so much about the weed itself - it started off as trying to prove to himself that he could. When in Rome, and all that. He doesn’t want to be the kind of person who’s scared of something as minor as a little bit of weed. Now that he’s face-to-face with the opportunity though, he’s nearly chickening out again.  
  
Corner-ruminations aside, for it all to lead up to this, he thinks, is a little pathetic.  
He’s been through the full year of upper-middle class adventure, of going off the beaten track - Harvard Med, nervous breakdown, the glossy-pamphlet style recovery that’s for rich kids with their horseback riding and mountaintop yoga - then emptying his trust fund to do something reckless like travel Europe for a few months. For all of that to lead up to him standing outside a goddamn Amsterdam coffee shop, plagued by these irrelevant, silly ruminations, it must really tell a story about him.  
  
Even the soothing May breeze that twists the birch trees lining the street on each side has him feeling like his stomach is twisting in tandem.  
  
His phone pings.  
The text message that he receives from his mother is enough to mobilize that residue of teenage rebellion. During his actual teenage years, he hadn’t had enough time to rebel which is why the text is almost like a sign from God that reminds him of why he’s here in the first place. It spurs him into action; before he knows it he’s stood at the counter across a clerk who knows he’s nervous, recommends him something light and something that - he miraculously knows Eugene needs - “helps with anxiety” quote unquote.  
  
Eugene is grateful to the fact that this time around, he’s found a near-empty little establishment for his second attempt at weed. Well-lit, inviting, homely - escape routes mapped out. Comfortable in the way that Amsterdam city center coffee shops aren’t. Fuck _The Bulldog_ \- being in there in itself, with the hazy darkness, the shitty psychedelic music - the ambiance alone is enough to make him feel like he’s losing it.  
That one year of therapy really did a number on him when what he’s doing with it is considering the right ambiance to smoke his first weed in. He wonders if Dr. Kemper would approve of what he uses his mindfulness for but then again, it’s “all about what _you_ want”.  
  
Euros exchange hands, he fumbles with the currency, still not quite sure how to use what looks like Monopoly money to him and then he passes the glass walls to the smoker’s section, head so far up in the clouds that he doesn’t even notice the other person in there until he’s sat down and stuck there, unwilling to expose himself to the awkwardness of getting back up.  
  
The first thing he notices is the numbingly obnoxious chatter when he sits down. Granted, it might just be the fact that he’s staring down the barrel of a joint that’s giving his gold-star-student self the anxiety of a lifetime but if he’d known he’d have to listen to some guy recount his weekend, he’d have taken his mission elsewhere.

  
He shifts on the creaky hardwood chair, crossing his legs so that his knees are twisting uncomfortably and turns into the guy’s general direction before clearing his throat in an attempt to communicate his dismay but all in vain: he doesn’t seem to hear it.  
  
Once it’s apparent that his first line of action, passive-aggression, didn’t work, he tries to distract himself from the retelling of some person this guy slept with. Rhythmically tapping the lighter against the tabletop, observing the groves in it, examining the ashtray, memorizing the chips on the side of the table. He presses his thumb into a spot where the varnish and a little piece of wood leaves a sharp dent and rolls around in that only to ground himself and feel that rough edge against his skin but his attention goes back to the stranger, no matter how hard he tries.  
  
It’s miraculous, really; the guy on the phone lights his joint like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Contrast that to trembly-handed Eugene flicking the lighter on and off, trying to seem nonchalant when he looks out the window on the side of the room. Five minutes in and none the closer to actually doing what he set out to do, he notices how the stranger gives him a once-over and Eugene shrinks under it. He realizes he‘s entirely without a coat of anonymity to hide behind.  
  
By the time the stranger finishes talking and Eugene’s still playing with the lighter, he's halfway to giving up on the endeavor and leaving, but for fate or lack of something better to do, the stranger looks again.  
He does that second-take in a way so apparent and unabashed it triggers a kind of entitled annoyance in Eugene which brings him to finally snap:  
“What?”  
“Nothing.” He looks him straight in the eye, not faltering for a second. The look makes Eugene feel like he’s been placed in a display case and it certainly doesn’t help that he finds him attractive. Eugene knows he has a penchant for them being rude and mocking, it’s like masochism but more subtle. Something about being covertly criticized and pressed into shape his whole life makes him crave open scrutiny - the wolf that’s showing he’s a wolf.  
“First time?”  
As he asks, he smiles all slow, unfurling incisors, tar-sticky, much too slow for a regular-people smile. Fucking weird.

Eugene sighs and rolls his eyes.

„Yeah.“  
  
Eugene resolutely clacks the lighter against the hardwood of the table. He wonders why he even bothers getting involved with a person obnoxious in that much-too-comfortable-in-his-own-skin kind of way - piercings, ripped jeans and worn shirts and unkempt hair like he knows he’s hot without having to put in any of the effort.

„Then what are you waiting for?“

The chair rasps against the floor when he gets up and goes to sit by Eugene.  
„Don’t overthink it, if you don’t like it at least you’ll know you don‘t.“

Eugene plays with the lighter again, trying to work himself up to it.

Deliberately and unhurriedly, the stranger’s hands appear in Eugene’s line of vision, gently pulling the joint from his hands. It’s a bit too quick for him so Eugene startles but the slow, gentle movement makes Eugene let him take it from him.  
  
Eugene watches him light it, set between a full, pointed mouth. He takes the second of distraction to map out the guy’s face: a straight browline, dark lashes, a soft nose that curves down at the very tip of it- his eyes are huge when he looks back up and catches Eugene staring.

„Don’t overdo it.“

He says, and it means two things as he’s passing Eugene the joint. A jolt of shame goes through him at that.

“What’s your name?”

“Eugene. You?”

Eugene takes it from him, eyes on the offending joint between his fingers, watching it burn before he overcomes his resentment and takes a drag.

“I go by Snafu.”

Eugene coughs on the first inhale. Apparently, no amount of exam-and-anxiety-induced chain-smoking prepares you for the tangy, damp sting of actual weed. In a way, it‘s almost a relief that he’s had the experience of coughing from weed in front of a hot guy. Sounds like something everybody’s gotta have experienced at least once, just to stay humble.

He accepts the glass of water Snafu offers him, red cheeked, teary-eyed through his coughing fit.

„And are you?“ Eugene reiterates with a raspy voice, swallowing. „A _SNAFU_ , I mean.“

Snafu shrugs. „A little bit.“

  
\---  
  


Eugene gets used to the smoke pretty quickly. He observes the way Snafu does it, little puffs with just the lips, almost sucking it through his teeth and then he mimics that and it works well enough. As afternoon nears, the sun throws light onto the motes floating idly about when a short-lived silence settles between them, soon interrupted by the clerk coming in to wipe the tables and replace the ashtrays. He’s busying himself with a table by Eugene‘s when he pats Snafu on the shoulder.

„Hey, didn’t you say you had errands to run? I don’t want you harassing customers on your day off.“

Snafu turns to him and it immediately becomes visible that they’re close, the way Snafu’s face splits in half with a grin. Eugene catches himself observing their dynamic, like looking through the window to a stranger’s house in passing.

„So it’s fine when I‘m working?“

Before he goes back outside, the guy simply smacks him on the shoulder with a mock-stern face, Snafu smiling all the same with one side of his mouth perked up.

Eugene doesn‘t really notice any effect at first. It’s all just dissipating tension in his shoulders and a fine, heightened quality to his senses. Sounds a little clearer, impressions a little more colorful. He stops himself soon after the first wave hits him and lets Snafu finish the joint, who, come to think of it, may or may not have been initiating the whole conversation just to bum from him. But it’s all in good fun and Eugene’s relieved at how easy this went by, thinks about how this is much less invasive than drinking while Snafu tells him a story about himself. He’s about to call it, about to say goodbye and carry on with his long list of activities for the day when he’s suddenly and inexplicably bent on figuring out the shape of Snafu’s mouth.  
  
He’s never seen anything like it. Snafu’s „o“‘s are different from other people’s. They’re more rounded, more pronounced by the shape of his mouth. It’s fascinating stuff, out of a purely physiological interest. The „o“ of his mouth and the „o“ that comes out of it. Like an echo or a sound wave that flows freely. He says it out loud. „Oh.“, Eugene says and Snafu interrupts his recollections to muster him.

„Oh?“ he asks, and there it is again, that pretty little circle his mouth pulls into that looks so much like the letter itself. Eugene laughs and then it catches up with him.

„ _Oh…_ “

As soon as he realizes he‘s now officially high for the first time, he panics. Hands gripping hard into the tabletop, sweat rolling down his temple, so oversensitized he feels like he can pinpoint each droplet growing in his glands before it wells forth and presses through each tiny pore. Like an hourglass. Snafu seems to catch on because he’s laughing, bell-like and clear but a little mean, and pats him on the shoulder approvingly.

„There you go!“ He says happily and the „O“ in „Go“ echoes in Eugene’s mind. He feels like the whole world becomes the little box of it that Eugene sees. Like he‘s wearing blinders on both sides yet extraordinarily self-aware. Each bite of anxiety manifests in each of his movements to the point it becomes an endless loop. An anxiety, an awkward movement, a reason to be anxious, more awkward movements. He’s pressing his lips together and he must look wan in the light because Snafu’s expression twists into something worried.

„Hey, you ok?“

One point of contact, two of Snafu’s fingers on Eugene’s bicep. Two too many, it‘s a lot, there’s energy running through them and nesting inside of him. Finally, when he manages to mobilize his dry, slow mouth he says it:

“I don’t feel so good.” Pulls his shoulder away and into himself. The last thing he sees is Snafu grimace and look past Eugene at someone else. Eugene distinctly hears “Can’t leave him like that.”.  
  


Much to his surprise, Snafu is the kind of guy to take responsibility. Judging by the way he's not afraid to show how inconvenienced he is, it’s apparent that he had other plans for the day instead of being tied to some guy who needs a trip-sitter.  
  
The brightness of the daylight hits him like a train when he exits the coffee shop with Snafu leading him by the arm. Eugene doesn’t even know how they left the shop, just knows he’s being led through the street by his arm and a literal stranger cooing at him.

“Shit, I should have watched you closer. You smoked a lot of it.” he hears him say and for some reason that makes Eugene laugh. By the time Snafu asks why he’s laughing, Eugene's forgotten all about it and looks at him all confused and glassy-eyed.

“Where’s your hotel?” Snafu asks and sits Eugene down on a bench outside. Then: “Wait.” and busies himself with rummaging through his bag.

“I can’t go back there.” says Eugene quietly.

Snafu produces a pair of sunglasses from his backpack and sets them on Eugene’s face.

“They can’t see me like this.”

“What are you talking about?”

Eugene is dead-serious: “They’ll judge me. They’ll remember me and they’ll judge me.”

“Dude, I can’t just leave you here. You gotta tell me where you’re staying.”

“I’m telling you. I can’t go back.”

Snafu observes him for a moment and the line of his brow tenses up. He almost seems a little panicked with the way he’s clicking his tongue and looking over his shoulder before turning back to Eugene.

Snafu‘s frowning down at him, squinting partly due to the sun, partly in worry. He‘s searching his face for a sign of sorts but Eugene is trained in not letting any of himself show on it. A second goes by, another second. The silence stretches on and Eugene knows, he knows that he’s inconveniencing this guy with the errands but the desire to not be seen like this at a nice hotel is larger than his desire not to sober up on a park bench for what might be hours.

„I can stay here.“ He suggests but Snafu shakes his head.

„You’re too high-strung. Look at you.“

  
Snafu groans, draws his fingers tight around the edge of his hairline, palms pressing into his eyes. There’s upset lining his face that Eugene didn’t expect.

Thinking, thinking. Eugene lights a cigarette, feeling like a teen boy being caught doing something bad. Snafu says „Gimme.“ and Eugene hands it to him.

„Ok, you can‘t go back to the hotel. Not that I wouldn’t drop you off but I don‘t know where it is. ‘Cause I don‘t care-„ He looks back at Eugene.

„What‘s your name again?“

„Eugene.“

„‘Cause I don‘t care, _Eugene_ , that you care about some hotel staff member judging you. But you won’t tell me because you clearly don‘t wanna go back.“  
  
He takes a long drag, an impressively long drag that looks like it halfs the cigarette in one go.

„So I don’t know what you’re thinking but I‘m not leaving because you clearly have some issues and I don’t want that on my conscience. Why didn’t you know it‘d fuck with you!? It was so obviously gonna fuck with you!“

„I don‘t know!“ Eugene cries and desperately looks at Snafu through his fingers over his face.

“Fuck, okay.” Snafu exhales through his teeth, tapping his foot on the ground as he comes to a conclusion, clearly inconvenienced but unwilling to leave Eugene to his own devices.  
  


\---

  
Snafu ends up bringing him along for his errands.  
It’s a rough start for Eugene - during the first hour, every piece of sensory input only serves to overwhelm him: Crowded Amsterdam, tourists in every street, scents, colors - he feels so emerged into this bizarre dreamland that even Snafu’s presence doesn’t do much to help. With this stranger by the side - and it’s surprising how little trepidation Eugene feels at inconveniencing him - he’s still lost in translation. A new country, a different language.

Some minutes he spends forgetting where he is and thinking that people have started speaking in tongues. Every time he gets too far up in his head, however, Snafu will tug at his sleeve and point at something for Eugene to look at. He’s in some sort of oriental shop while Snafu is at the counter trying to wire money and when Eugene starts feeling all clogged up with the scent of incense and something distinctly plasticky - so cloying he can feel it in the back of his throat where his heart tries to combat it by beating against it - Snafu taps his shoulder and points at an aquarium with exotic fish and says “Check that out.”  
  
He does this a few times, almost like he can read when Eugene’s going back to that place and it’s not just with the fish that it happens. He doesn’t know for how long he looks at them, the glimmering, orange scales flitting through the fluorescent aquarium light, stark against the blue-green backdrop. The sway of the algae with the hum of the water cleaner. The sea-glass pebbles on the bottom of it, milky coral and pink stones.  
  
It happens when they’re outside and Snafu will point at a single, cottony cloud in the otherwise unnaturally blue sky, he’ll point at a funny middle-aged little man who’s performing in a pink tutu, swaying around a wire hoop and producing soap bubbles larger than Eugene himself.  
One of them could have fit him on the inside of it - he imagines it, sitting on the bottom of that bubble, the way its surface shifts and turns the faint, rainbow-colored swirls all around him, rising, rising, viewing the city from all the way up there, rising until it pops.  
  
When he becomes a little clearer, Eugene finally understands what people like about this place.  
He’s sure that Snafu is taking the paths less travelled, avoiding crowds and main streets but even the canal-side pedestrian zones have a charm to them unlike anything he’s ever seen. By the side of them, the long, narrow houses are beetled up one after the other, red, black, orange facades, windows all high up on the lower floors, framed by the lush, green foliage of the trees planted by the sides of the streets. The canals are crowded with house-boats and every one of them is a visual feast, worn in that charming, rustic kind of way. Eugene observes the rust, the way it stands out against the black varnish, the way people have made their homes on water. He dreams about what it would be like to live in one of them and wake up to the sway of disturbed water.  
  
Snafu and he traverse so many bridges, Eugene loses count. They’re all built in that quaint, Amsterdam fashion - swirling iron railings, painted black, cobblestone paths leading over the rifts of water, streaking all across the cityscape. A clear, light kind of air.

By the time he sobers up, he finds himself sitting in a riverside café, over a glass of white wine.  
  
The sun hangs low in the sky, casting its golden light over the side of Snafu’s face, over the rim of Eugene’s glass, the railings, the brick walls. The spring breeze feels like a caress through his hair and Snafu looks up from his phone, smiling with one side of his mouth.  
“How are you feeling?”  
  
Eugene looks at him against the backdrop of that charming city. He fits right in, with his dark, wild curls in this wild, wild world.  
“Better.” he says, truthfully. Then: “Why were you being so nice to me?”

  
Snafu chews that over, pulling his mouth into a sharp point, contemplating.  
“Dunno.” he says, flipping his phone face down and resting his chin in his hands.  
“You just seemed like the kind of person who needs help not taking shit too seriously.”  
Eugene laughs, still a little out of it.  
“You’d be right about that.”  
  
The silence that settles in that warm space between them is comfortable, easy. Before Eugene can overthink his next words, he makes his mouth move before his head can catch up with what he’s about to do.  
“Would you ever wanna go out with me?”  
  
Snafu’s eyebrows shoot up. For a second Eugene thinks he might have clocked him wrong because the surprise on his face is so plain - non-judgemental but absolutely taken aback. Then that characteristic grin unfolds on his face and Snafu shakes his head in disbelief.  
“You’re only gonna be here for two weeks, right?”  
Eugene can’t remember telling him that but he nods.  
  
“I know it’s a leap of faith but…” he shrugs, feeling loose from the day outside, the sun, the weed. “I’m thinking I need the kind of person who’ll help me not to take shit too seriously.”

  
Snafu laughs, pleasantly surprised.  
“I did _not_ see that coming.” he flicks a lighter out of his pocket and lights a cigarette, leaving it to rest on the edge of the ashtray. Eugene can hardly believe it himself.  
  
“Yeah fuck it, I’ll go out with you.”  
Eugene laughs and the way Snafu looks at him, sly but open, makes something fond blossom under his sternum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> multi-chap because i'm a bitch who knows not time.
> 
> (i didn't get enough positive affirmations as a child so help me fill the void by commenting)


	2. to taste

After that conversation last night, there’s no room for misconception between the two of them. Eugene finds it hard to believe his own grit when it came to asking Snafu out but he’s glad for it, something newly bold and invigorated growing in his chest. With how he’s only staying for two weeks, it’s pretty apparent what their relationship is going to entail but Eugene finds that with Snafu, it’s surprisingly easy to go with the flow, despite how prone he is to running his every action through layers of analysis first.   
  
That evening at the café, over a few glasses of wine, had a kind of secret charm to it - as soon as the words were out of Eugene’s mouth he found Snafu take on a different demeanor, something more forward. Despite usually shrinking under observation, he found that when it came to Snafu, his single-minded focus on him made him blossom. Surely, the wine helped, but it wasn’t only that; He felt like a plant that had been neglected by the sun, then moved under a beam of direct daylight. He felt pink-cheeked and charming, and funnier than usual. He felt his movements observed with rapture, like under a looking glass. When they eventually parted ways later that night, the spring to his step that carried him back to his hotel was something light and youthful and easy. Giddy with excitement for the next day - something he realized he hadn’t felt in much too long.   
  
With the next morning, it carries over. He’s set for a date at 5 p.m., a scribbled address on a crumpled receipt, something to “stay hungry for”, but Eugene has the day to himself, the wonderful feeling of absolute freedom to do whatever he likes, whenever he likes. After a croissant and eggs at the hotel, he tours the museum district, goes to see the Van Gogh gallery before a walk in the park. The atmosphere of the city figuratively washes the stress off him to the point he barely recognizes himself: A newborn self, relaxed and happy. When he smiles at people in the street it’s not out of politeness but the fact that he can’t help it. So content it shows in his face.

\---

  
By the time 5 p.m. rolls around, Eugene has managed to build up some of that familiar nerve. He’s stayed hungry for it, an empty and anxious flutter in his stomach as he climbs the stairs in the old, elevator-less building that Snafu’s apartment sits in. Above all, he wonders what this date would entail, whether he was right in his choice to ask out a complete stranger. Remembering the conversation from the previous night would suggest that anything he worries about is in vain - lively chatter, easy banter and no sign of trepidation on Snafu’s face for even a second - but being who he is, there’s always that nagging residue of doubt. As he climbs floor for floor, all the way up to the fourth, the tension and anxiety follows him up, peaking right at Snafu’s door, right before he hears the steps move toward it from the inside. Heart ready to burst out his chest by the time it swings open, only for it all to fall back into place when he sees Snafu’s face split into a genuine smile, something heavy in his lids but legible as pleasant despite it.

He’s barefoot and easy in his flat, the controlled chaos of the kitchen like his own personal cabinet of wonders. After greetings, Eugene watches him move about like something feline - deliberate, focused and with an easy grace. He’s shirtless in the heat of that first hot day of the year and the sweat clinging to his chest looks like champagne against his skin where the window paints four blocks of gold against it.    
Snafu uncorks a bottle of wine.   
“Here.” Snafu sets two glinting glasses on the counter in front of Eugene, the bottle follows. Eugene goes to fill them up one for each, then hands one back to Snafu. The clink is bell-like over the music from the living room.

“What are you making? It smells amazing.” Eugene goes to peek into the oven but Snafu moves in front of him, blocking his view and gently placing a hand over his cheek to move his head away.   
“It’s a surprise!” Then, “Have some of this.” Snafu holds out a piece of bread with bruschetta on it. “Open up.”

  
Eugene, hesitant but ever well-mannered opens his mouth. The way Snafu places it on his tongue is as gentle as it is sensual and while it’s odd to be fed like this, Eugene feels a pang of something hungry and submissive. Eugene looks up from under his lashes and sees Snafu focused on his mouth, eyes pinned to the way Eugene’s lips move around his fingers.

He’s strange like this, but attractive. Something about the gesture has Eugene wanting to bend his head back, bare his neck. There’s something hungry in it too, but consuming and Eugene is helpless to the way he feels it surrounding him all invigorating and bold. 

Needless to say, the bruschetta tastes phenomenal. The sprig of rosemary, the fresh tomato - it’s tangy and fresh in his mouth, the fruit so ripe it bursts with just a touch of the tongue then soft and earthy when he goes to chew it. Snafu slowly detaches his eyes from Eugene’s lips and smiles, clearly satisfied with how Eugene enjoys it, eyes rolling back with a hum. One last check in the oven and Snafu ushers him out of the kitchen, bringing a tray and their glasses onto the balcony where the sun is dipping low in the sky, long shadows creeping over the tiles in that golden, almost liquid air. Snafu’s bracelet winks at Eugene when he goes to light a cigarette.

“So,” he starts, a flick of the wrist to get the bracelet to slide down his arm. “Tell me about yourself.”

Eugene hums, pensive.

“Well,” he starts, moving his lips over the rim of the glass, the sip of chardonnay going down his throat like magnolia-scented air in spring. “You know I went to Harvard for a while, you know I’m here now.”

“And the in-between?”

A group of blackbirds scatter and fly over their heads, the rumble from the street many stories below suddenly murmuring its way into Eugene’s ears. He rubs the stem of his glass with his finger as it splits the light like a diamond and twists the world upside down.

“You don’t wanna talk about it, that’s fine.” Snafu finally follows up, when the silence wraps too close around them.

“I can, but you can’t judge me for it.”   
Snafu leans forward, elbows on the cramped little glass table he put out.   
“I’m not one to judge.”

After a deep sigh, Eugene starts talking.

He talks about everything, the order it comes to mind. Finds that once he gets started, it’s surprisingly easy to keep coming up with things. There’s something about Snafu, something about his uncensored manner that makes it easy for Eugene to open up without fear of being devalued. He tells him about high school, about how he’s been hungry for years by the time he graduated. About how he kissed his first boy over open textbooks only to never speak of it again. He tells Snafu that the only drink he had until a few weeks ago was a glass of whiskey for his twenty-first birthday and how his only friend was a person growing up in the house next to him. He tells him about Harvard, tells him about feeling nothing when he got accepted, tells him about that deep chasm of dissonance between what he felt receiving the acceptance letter and the proud glow on the faces around him. The panic attacks. Sitting under his table at 4 a.m. hopped up on Ritalin from a sketchy colleague that he took because the material wouldn’t stick, no matter how hard he tried. Then Pastiches, the bathrobe with his initials on it. Emptying his trust fund to travel Europe.

Snafu listens for all of it and Eugene distinctly knows that what he’s describing is nothing like Snafu’s own life but the way he nods along and the way he  _ hears _ him plants a seed in his core that blooms into a full, bright appreciation by the end of his last sentence. It’s like despite the tremendous differences in their upbringing, they’re made from the same material, cut from the same soul. By the time he finishes, Snafu looks at him with his head propped up in his hand, stretching the other over the table to grab at Eugene’s. He doesn’t say anything and unexpectedly, it’s the most validating reaction Eugene’s ever gotten from someone.

They eat bumping knees on the crammed balcony and by the time the last drop is squeezed from the bottle of wine shared between them, a warm and breezy night is resting around them.

It feels like a natural progression when Snafu goes to kiss Eugene after sorting out the plates and the glasses, as he’s standing leaned against the doorway to the night and Eugene finds it surprisingly easy to slide into that submission like it’s something familiar.

Despite how with the marginal difference in their heights Eugene comes out the taller one, he feels small in the wake of that hard squeeze of Shelton’s hand around his waist. For someone so little he sure packs heat, one arm wrapped around his back so tight Eugene almost finds it hard to breathe. He’s intense like this, some primal, hungry beast burying its teeth into Eugene through him and Eugene’s so excited at the prospect of sleeping with him, it almost comes as a surprise.

He stumbles over a jagged edge in the carpet walking backwards into the bedroom but Snafu doesn’t stop kissing him, just pushes and pushes until the back of Eugene’s knees find the futon and he drops into the mattress.

„You look good.“ Snafu hums approvingly when Eugene pulls his shirt over his head. The rosy flush rising to his cheeks, to his chest. Snafu looks at him like he wants to swallow him whole.

He braces his weight onto his arm by Eugene’s thigh and kisses him until he’s open and slack-mouthed.

Eugene hasn’t felt that way in a while, is unsure if he’s ever felt that way in the first place. Here, it doesn’t feel like he’s driven only by a physiological need but something bigger, lighter in his chest. Not about a body to bend and shape but the play between the two of them, back and forth like a seesaw. Eugene goes to mold his fingertips against Snafu’s neck and lies down on his back, pulling him forward, coaxed open to the point he thinks his rib cage is splitting. Receiving. Submissive.

“I wanna fuck you.” Snafu mumbles against his mouth and Eugene can’t help but to moan at that, inviting him closer with the tip of his tongue.

  
He does, in the end, Eugene bent over on his bed with his head in the pillows, soft then hard, slow then fast. Snafu’s mouth is full of praise for him and filthy, molding him into a docile, almost subservient creature as he chats away to the point it’s a little obnoxious. By the time it’s over, Eugene is wiped blank and he’s so blissfully devoid of anything but his near-liquid muscles melting even further into the mattress and he watches from where he’s pillowed against his bicep as Snafu goes to throw the condom in the trash.   
“That was good.” Snafu says when he comes back to join him on the bed. He lightly smacks Eugene on the waist who makes space for him to lie down. He’s all wired and funny in the afterglow, eyes lit up in the dim room. When he smiles, it reaches them.   
  
Top to bottom in the nude, Eugene has never felt so comfortable being bared like this, still feeling all full and sated and he stretches out his arm so that Snafu can rest his head on it. He smells like sweat and salt and sex the closer he comes, tastes like something spicy when he kisses him.   
  
Later, they share a cigarette on the balcony, leaning shoulder to shoulder over the view of a lively street that’s just quieting down at 1 a.m. The moon has Snafu’s profile painted blue, the only point of warmth the ember of the cigarette, the table lamp from inside the apartment. Eugene tastes some of himself on his lips when he kisses him again.   
“What about you?” Eugene asks quietly, over the murmur of the city in the dark, head nestled comfortably in the crook of Snafu’s shoulder. “Why are you here?”   
  
Snafu flicks the cigarette against the brim of the ashtray, the pillar of ash comes crumbling down before he hands it back to Eugene.    
“That’s a story for another time.”


End file.
